Chapter 11

Remington handed Laura a cup of tea, then tucked himself into the corner of the couch in his flat, and eyed Laura nervously. She was furious with him, that he knew. He had some idea of why, between the Agency's license being revoked and for what she'd interpreted as his lack of help on the Westfield of investigation. All of it exacerbated by… what? Well, the answer to that 'what' was precisely what he didn't know, but his instincts told him it was whatever that 'what' was which lay truly at the heart of her fury.

Their troubles hadn't begun with the Westfield case, of course, but somewhere in between their return to Vegas and two evenings past… the night he'd dozed off as she'd revisted the case they'd just closed and, apparently, had begun to tell him of the Westfield matter. He'd revisted what he'd said, what he'd done, in the week since their return, only to come up empty handed. Absent that little nap, he'd been on his best behavior. Not a single plot, ploy, gambit… not a single lie, neither big nor small, told. He'd been attentive, engaged, following her cues as he'd always – well, almost always – done. Still, she'd smiled less often as the days had passed, and had become increasingly more stiff in his arms.

Now, he could only wait her out, for the look on her face said she was about to tell him what was on her mind. In the meantime, perhaps a bit of chatter about work? Shop talk, after all, was something that generally put her in a better mood.

"You know I, uh," he began, scratching at a leg nervously, "Took the opportunity to look over some of your old case reports. And I must admit you used quite a bit of creativity in putting them together." She took a long swallow of the tea, before sightlessly setting her cup on the saucer.

"That was before you were you," she answered in a voice that was distinctly distant, while she stared straight ahead at nothingness. "I still had to keep alive the illusion that there really was a Remington Steele." His heart began to pound, as he set his own cup carefully, slowly, back on the saucer he held in hand.

"Yes well, uh," he answered, hesitantly, brushing hair off his forehead with an anxious hand, "Despite all that I don't think we're gonna have any trouble in getting our license restored." He ran his tongue around his mouth, frowned worriedly at her profile. A childhood of abandonment had honed his instincts well, and he braced himself, dreading what was to come. Leaning forward, she placed cup and saucer on the coffee table, clearly troubled.

When her investigation into William Westfield's background had begun, she could've never imagined the outcome. She leaned back slowly, until her back rested against the cushions, her eyes downcast.

"Not having it has, um, given me time to think." For the first time since she'd arrived, she looked fully at him. What he saw in her face, merely confirmed what he knew was to come: Her sad, yet distant eyes, the strain around them, the twitch of her left brow.

"About what?"

"Is that piece of paper the only thing that's keeping us together? Do we really have anything else in common besides this agency?" His lips lifted in a nervous smile, but she could see the disbelief in his eyes.

"Laura, if you're talking about my allergy to legwork—" He swallowed hard, unable to to finish the thought.

"No, it's got nothing to do with that," she replied, slowly rising to her feet, putting space between them, before she turned to face him. "Don't you see? I mean, losing our license may be the very best thing that ever happened to us. Maybe it'll give us time to think about how we really feel towards each other, outside work. All we've ever done is play trial-and-error with our personal relationship, as we try to squeeze it into our professional one."

"Are you saying it hasn't worked?" Her gut clenched at the naked hurt she saw in his eyes. Sitting on the arm of a chair, taking her weight off her shaky limbs, she forced herself to press on.

"Are you saying it has?" she challenged, quietly.

"Well, perhaps not consistently, but-"

"All I'm suggesting is… that maybe we take some time, think about it for awhile. That's all." He swallowed again, then nodded slowly.

"And should I say I've no need for time?" he inquired, his tongue flicking out to moisten dry lips. She gave her head a slow shake, as she stood.

"I still do," she answered in that same, carefully controlled voice. "I should… go." She took a half dozen steps towards the front door, then stilled. Her brows were furrowed, her eyes moist, when she looked back over her shoulder at him. "I'm sorry," she told him, her voice cracking. She closed her eyes, drew her lips in, then forced herself to take in a slow deep breath. Opening her eyes, turned her focus back to the door, while picking up her purse off the credenza.

Something inside him broke, as she reached for the doorknob. He'd allowed her to end them in Cannes, had put up no fight for fear she'd send him fully on his way. No, he resolved, this time she wasn't walking away from him, from them, without a fight. He sprung to his feet, strode towards her.

"Laura, wait, wait," he called to her, grabbing her upper arm as she began to turn the knob. "I think we need to talk, don't you? I'll make us a bite to eat, we can work through—" She leaned her head against the door in dismay.

"I can't," she forced the words past her lips, "I have a flight to catch in two hours."

"Going to your mother's, to clear your head?" he speculated.

"No," she turned to face him, her brown eyes swimming with guilt and a bit of defiance. "To Mexico City." It took a second for her meaning to register, but the instant that it did, his eyes turned to ice, his jaw clenched.

"I see." And he did. He reached around her and opened the door. "Best be off then. Wouldn't want you to miss your flight." She hesitated.

"Mr.—"

"Bye, bye, now," he cut her off, waving a hand towards the door. She drew herself up to her full height, then bestowed him with a nod of her head. She considered it a victory that her face hadn't crumpled and her eyes hadn't filled with moisture until she'd turned around.

Still, she shuddered when the door slammed behind her with a resounding clap of wood against wood, then heard the lock engage after.

He couldn't have said it more clearly had he spoken the words. For in deeds he'd just told her she was no longer welcome in his home.

With a pat of her hand against her stomach, she straightened her shoulders and walked to the elevator.

What she couldn't understand was why the sounds of those locks engaging left her feeling emptier than she had when she'd come home to discover her empty house and a note from Wilson informing her that he'd left.

By the time he arrived at the office of the State Licensing Board, Remington's anger was a real and living thing. Bergman, the crooked investigator who'd taken the Agency's license, was ill-prepared to handle the man who appeared before him. This wasn't the Remington Steele who'd nervously fidgeted before he'd ducked out of their meeting. By the time Bergman had been dragged the length of the conference table then thrown into the wall, he'd recognized the murderous intent in the detective's eyes and was prepared to capitulate to every demand, rather than risk the consequences.

Thus, Remington had left the State Licensing Board's offices with the Agency's fully reinstated license and a stamped, manila envelope in hand, with Bergman trudging docilely aside him to the limosine. By the time the man had shared his confession with the LAPD, Remington's anger had veered towards deep, aching regret.

Whatever had been troubling Laura this past week could have been resolved. He'd been confident of that straight along, even if he'd no idea what it was she was masticating to death. The loss of the Agency license had been the death knell to any hope they'd had of making a go of things.

"Stop here, Fred, if you don't mind," he called to the Agency chauffer from the back seat of the limo.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Steele," Fred answered, as he pulled the limo over next to the curb.

Remington stepped from the limo then walked briskly towards the pubic mail box. It was only when he stood in front of it that he paused. Remorse was all he knew as he stared down at the license, for mailing it to Laura meant he was closing a chapter of his life which had spanned nearly three years. He asked himself one, last time if there was any way but this, then shook his head.

There was nothing left for him here now. He dropped the now sealed envelope into the mailbox and returned to the limo.

With a final look at the night-lit vision of the city he'd come to consider home, he leaned down to speak through the open passenger window.

"Home, Fred." The words tasted bittersweet against his tongue. How many times has he said them across the years? Enough so that they'd come to mean something to him.

Two-and-a-half hours later, he took his seat in the first class compartment of the plane and, when the plane lifted into the inky night, the man that had been Remington Steele disappeared.